


By the Light of a Votive

by ConvenientAlias



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Candles, Christine is dead, F/M, Grief/Mourning, M/M, sorry about that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-11
Updated: 2017-10-11
Packaged: 2019-01-15 22:23:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12330054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConvenientAlias/pseuds/ConvenientAlias
Summary: “Did you wish to speak to me?” the Phantom asks. He sits back down at the grand piano. His fingers rest on the keys. He does not play.“Christine is dead.”The Phantom nods. He does not look surprised. But then, he will not look Raoul in the face either.Or, the one where Raoul returns to Paris a lonely man, and Erik has always been lonely.





	By the Light of a Votive

The lair is just as Raoul remembers it, down to the last detail. He can see through the lowered portcullis that the bed is still there, though there are cobwebs atop the canopy. Next to it on the bed-stand sits the windup monkey with the cymbals, eerily still. There is still a mannequin in the corner painted to look like Christine, too, now without a dress. Raoul knows he ought to be offended at that, as her husband. He is not.

The Phantom is still here too. He is sitting at the grand piano and he has not looked up even now that Raoul has arrived. But he is not playing music. He is writing on a piece of paper, possibly composing a new opera. They say he has not forced the Opera Populaire to perform anything since the Don Juan fiasco, nor has he caused as much trouble. They say that. Raoul has been away, and he does not know whether it is true.

It is not the Phantom’s presence that causes Raoul shivers. He is shorter than Raoul remembered, and with his mask on there is nothing so terrifying about him. No, it is something quite different that makes him pause, fighting to catch his breath, to calm himself the way Christine used to calm him. The smell of candles, a now familiar terror. Everything is the same, and the Phantom still has candles practically littering the place, lining the bed-stand, the piano, a nearby table, thrust into tall candlesticks and many-pronged candelabras. They send flickering light all over the room, golden and quavering in sickening patterns. They give off too much smoke. It isn’t noxious smoke, really—probably they’re made with paraffin, much better than spermaceti oil or some other kinds of wax. But the unnecessary quantity of candles makes the smell so strong, and it makes Raoul think of that night, how the smoke had wafted into his nose and mouth as he choked for breath, how the Phantom had held a candle next to his face, flame menacing his cheek, and then slowly burned the rope above him, unwilling to take a knife to it and hasten the process. The smell of candle smoke, the golden glitter of flame, and the constriction of rope around his neck—it is all connected in his mind, all rolled into one. Since then he has irrationally hated candles in any large number. It makes things unpleasant for him at mass, except on the occasions when they bring out incense.

He takes a deep breath, trying to ignore how the smoke mixes with the air in his lungs. In. Out. Christine would usually say at this point, “You’re not there. You’re here, with me. We’re safe.” Sometimes he would have to repeat the same thing for her.

Now he is in the lair, and the Phantom is here too, and he’s not safe by any means. But it’s not that night, and Christine at least is not here and in danger. So it doesn’t really matter, does it? And at the thought that Christine will never be in danger from this man again, he calms.

It took Raoul hours to find his way down here, winding through tunnel after tunnel in Madame Giry’s small boat, coming to dead ends and looping back on his own path, rowing his way through tepid sewer water. He did not fall into any booby traps, and was surprising. Coming down here he had known to be putting his life on the line. But the Phantom apparently has decided their feud is over, which is as well.

Hesitantly, he clangs on the portcullis. Even touching it makes him cringe with memory, but he has come down here for a reason and he must make his voice heard, even if the Phantom would prefer to ignore him.

“I know you’re there, Vicomte,” the Phantom says. He does not look up from his writing. “But I did not invite you tonight, and I was not expecting you. You will have to wait.”

It’s been five years since their last meeting, but he acts as if it were yesterday. Odder still, he acts as if they are casual acquaintances. Though to be fair, he behaved similarly the last time Raoul trespassed, only with greater eagerness to mock him. That night did not go so well.

Raoul shivers. But Christine is not here, he reminds himself. Nothing matters. It does not matter what he does to you.

Eventually the Phantom stands. He casually walks over to the lever and cranks the portcullis up. Raoul is less anxious to come under this time, and he still has Madame Giry’s boat. Carefully he guides it to shore and ties it to a convenient pole. He steps onto firm ground.

“Did you wish to speak to me?” the Phantom asks. He sits back down at the grand piano. His fingers rest on the keys. He does not play.

“Christine is dead.”

The Phantom nods. He does not look surprised. But then, he will not look Raoul in the face either.

“It was a sickness,” Raoul says. “Towards the end of the winter. Winters in Sweden are very harsh.” He swallows. He has told enough people the story by now that he knows the details he is supposed to give, the expressions he is supposed to make, even knows how to gracefully accept condolences as if they actually mean something. But the Phantom acts as if he has not even heard, and Raoul is sure he does not want to hear any of the details that might soften the truth.

He clenches his hands, wishing he had something to do with them. Last time they had been kept busy enough trying to pry the rope away from his throat—but that’s a bad line of thought. The Phantom is acting peaceful tonight. And Christine doesn’t (didn’t) like when Raoul gets so morbid.

At last, the Phantom speaks. “I knew that, Monsieur. You have told enough people at the opera house for news to get around.” Probably that means he was eavesdropping. “I fail to see why you came down here to tell me. I was nothing to her.”

“You utter—” Raoul takes another deep breath. Smoke smell. Focus. “She cared about you. I assumed she would want you to know.”

“Assumed. So she didn’t talk about me.”

“No. We didn’t.” It’s a lie but the Phantom is cold and distant, and Raoul wishes he were far away. He wants to keep his memories of Christine in a little velvet-lined box, where they cannot be infected with the bitterness and judgment that might come from a man like this.

The Phantom laughs.

* * *

 

When the Vicomte is gone, Erik rips his paper into little shreds. It is no use composing. He has had writer’s block for days, ever since the Vicomte showed up with the news of Christine’s death and it became all the buzz around the theater. He’s heard eight different versions of the story, each of them wilder. Probably the Vicomte could give him the truth but it’s painful even to hear the man speak, especially when he speaks of Christine. Good riddance.

It’s been five years since Erik saw Christine last, and he should not care so much about her anymore. He has moved on, in some ways. He has a new opera, and he has tried to live a better life. Not exactly a more social life, but he goes outside more now, walking around the city in the night with his most realistic mask on. He stops at the cemetery sometimes and puts flowers on M. Daae’s grave, as he supposes Christine would like. Now he thinks he should put flowers on Christine’s grave but she is buried back in Sweden. That much he has gathered from the rumors.

He is not Catholic, but he goes to the church this evening. There he lights a votive and leaves a couple coins. It is the first time he has paid for anything in a while. Usually he steals what he needs or wants. He cannot steal providence for Christine’s soul.

The Vicomte, it seems, is back in Paris to stay. He does not come to the opera house but he is still spoken of. His reclusive nature only makes him a better subject for gossip. Holed up in his manor as if he has something to hide. Ah, but surely it is only his sorrow, says a good natured woman. They say he was very much in love with his wife. No, says another, but I would bet that he is no longer mourning her. Why else should he come to Paris but that he has a new lover? The poor dear—sure, she died of neglect. Well, how long could an opera girl keep a Vicomte interested once she was no longer onstage, and once he’d taken from her what she wanted?

Erik doesn’t listen to the rumors, knowing they lie. Raoul de Chagny was never that kind of man. But nevertheless, the rumors keep Raoul in his mind and finally, when a few weeks have passed, he decides to go visiting.

Night, of course, is his friend in this. He steals through Raoul’s window from the terrace, the way he always used to. He still sleeps in the same room as always. Before, though, he used to keep a single candle burning at his bedside. Now it is utterly dark, but all the better. Erik would see Raoul tonight, but as always, he has no wish to be seen. And his eyes are much the keener.

It is still early in the night, not midnight yet. He can hear Raoul turning—good, then. He is not yet asleep.

“Will you see me, monsieur? I know I come uninvited, but you can hardly complain of that. For you have not announced yourself before either of your visits.”

It is not so dark that Erik cannot see Raoul sit up straight at the sound of his voice. He steps closer.

“Monsieur Opera Ghost.”

“Indeed.”

“It is rare to see you outside the opera house.” His voice is tentative, but not exactly afraid.

“I have changed my ways of late, monsieur. I am practically a socialite. And so I must have company at every hour, despite the inconvenience.”

“It is no inconvenience. I cannot sleep.”

“Ah. Is it too lonely in your bed without a lover?” Erik can hear bitterness in his own voice. Damn it. He told himself he was not going to start a fight tonight. He and Raoul have no reason to fight anymore.

Raoul does not answer his question. Instead he says, “I lied to you.”

He says it so promptly it is clear he has been waiting to say it, perhaps has been agonizing over it for days. After all, it has the tone of a confession, the kind Christine used to make when she believed Erik really was something other than human. Bless me, Angel, for I have sinned. I didn’t practice the scales the way I was supposed to. I didn’t pray for my father today. I have looked on a man with lust.

And he used to absolve her, but he is not sure what forgiveness Raoul would seek. “What lie?”

“She did used to speak of you. You came up somewhat often.”

“Ah,” Erik says. “And did she used to have nightmares about me? Wake up in a cold sweat begging for comfort?”

“No. That was generally me.”

He says it very frankly, the kind of bluntness men use when they are ashamed but are not willing to show it. But it’s not a surprising statement, exactly, or rather it shouldn’t be. Erik knows he did terrorize Raoul—threatening his life and his loved one, holding a private war with him for months. Still, he’s surprised it took a toll. Part of him always saw Raoul as too strong for that, too strong to really fear anything. The classic hero of a picture book.

“When she spoke of you,” Raoul says, “she used to regret leaving. She used to wish she had stayed, not to marry you but to be your friend. She said she thought you could change, but that she did not think she could be the one to change you and still live her own life.” Pause. “She would cry about that sometimes.”

“Why would you tell me this?”

“So you can know she loved you.”

“That is not something I wanted to know.”

“Isn’t it?”

Later, Erik knows, he will cry. His tears will not be for Christine but for himself, for the love and life he could have known, that he ruined for himself and that Christine denied him. They will be selfish tears and so he will not inflict them on anyone else. Christine is only ever good in his mind. But if she is good then why did she not have room in her heart for him? Why did she leave?

He knows the answers to these questions and still they haunt him.

But he argues anyhow. “Pity is not the same as love, monsieur. I am very pitiable. Even you could pity me.”

“Yes,” Raoul says. “I do pity you, but Christine loved you.”

Erik thinks that coming here was a mistake.

“You loved her like few others did,” Raoul says. “I suppose I am glad to see you now. You must be the only one who hurts like I do.”

“I do not hurt.”

“Ah,” Raoul says. “Then I am sorry for my presumption.”

* * *

 

The Phantom visits Raoul several times after that. Sometimes he speaks. Other times he just sits in the silence.

He tells Raoul one time that he should come back to the opera house. He says it as an order rather than a suggestion, so Raoul somewhat grudgingly goes. The show that night is _Hannibal_ , which is making the rounds again, and Raoul thinks the Phantom must have set his mind on torturing him.

He cries in his private box as Elissa sings, and the door clicks open behind him.

“I had not seen you weep before.”

He chokes on a sob and forces it into a laugh. “Then you were one of the lucky few in Paris, until now. I cry very easily.”

But he cannot stop himself from crying, and after a moment the Phantom pulls him to his feet and embraces him. He expects the Phantom to smell like wax and smoke, but instead he simply smells of sweat and cheap cologne, not such an unpleasant scent. He pulls away, though, and wipes his eyes with a handkerchief. Onstage the soprano is still singing. It is neither Carlotta nor Christine but some silvery new voice, and the changing of the guard gives Raoul a headache.

He leaves the box, though in the hall he can still hear the echoes of music. The Phantom follows him as he strides towards the exit.

“You said you would attend tonight, monsieur.”

“I cannot.”

“You cannot pay homage to what your wife loved?”

Raoul laughs incredulously. “If I had any such strength, do you think I would be in Paris? I would have stayed in Sweden. We had a house there, in a little town. She loved our house. She loved our garden. Why do you think I travelled miles to live in my estate again? It wasn’t for high society, that’s for certain.”

“You said once that you pitied me, monsieur.”

The comment comes from nowhere. “Yes.”

“If you pity me, then come again tomorrow. I cannot bear to listen to it alone either. You cannot know how wild it drives me—even you did not know her music as I did! But I love her music and it is everywhere here. I cannot escape it. Do you think I have a mansion where I can hide?”

Raoul stops walking.

The Phantom isn’t his problem, really. He was never Christine’s problem either except that he made himself her problem. He’s not Raoul’s responsibility, and Raoul has enough grief of his own to fight without fighting someone else’s battles.

But the Phantom’s voice sounds ragged. Usually it is dispassionate or amused or a touch angry, but it has never sounded so sad before. It is the voice he used to remember in Sweden to remind himself the Phantom was human, the voice of the Phantom as he knelt at Christine’s feet and begged her to leave and be safe. The first time Raoul realized there was a man inside the ghost.

“Come home with me,” he says, not even sure what he’s offering. “No need to listen to her sing all night.” And by her he means the new soprano, but Christine as well. There is no listening to music here without hearing Christine.

“She’ll be singing for the next two weeks.”

“So stay two weeks,” Raoul says. He doesn’t use the majority of his house anyhow, and his sisters and mother live elsewhere now. “As long as you want. No need to haunt this place.”

“I am not a creature meant for the sun.”

“So stay inside.”

“You’d deal with a demon in daylight?”

Raoul shrugs. He finally turns around to face the Phantom, and sees that his arms are crossed and the half of his face that is uncovered looks highly skeptical, but perhaps a little hopeful.

“You’re a man, not a demon.”

The Phantom neither accepts nor refuses his offer, but when Raoul goes out to his coach he gets in with him rather than fading into the shadows. He seems uncomfortable even sitting next to Raoul as they drive down public roads. Raoul, uncomfortable himself and still a little shaky, leans against him, offering him the security of weight. It used to comfort him when Christine would lean against him or offer him her arm. He cannot be as comforting as her, but he can try.

When they arrive at the estate, the Phantom for the first time comes in through the front door. He even greets the servants. Raoul leads him up to the guest room. “I can get you a change of clothes if…”

“I will go back to the opera house to fetch them tomorrow,” the Phantom says.

It has grown dark, evening fading into night. The Phantom lights a candle sitting by his bedside. He lifts it and walks towards Raoul, who tries his best not to flinch. They’re friends now, he supposes. Friends of a certain type, bound by sorrow and blood and not by laughter and congeniality. He holds still even when the Phantom reaches up and cups his cheek, candle still in the other hand.

The Phantom does not lift the candle any further. But he leans in and kisses Raoul on the cheek. His lips are not wax either, but warm and soft.

And then he steps away quickly, leaving Raoul dazed in the doorway. He does not even smile. “Has it occurred to you yet that your pity is kinder than her love?”

It takes Raoul a moment to remember. Ah. Christine, he must be talking about Christine. His words are impolite. “I will not hear her insulted. She did love you…”

“And spent five years remembering me. You came back to me, and she did not.”

“She died.”

“You would have stayed away too, if not for her death. Too busy protecting her,” the Phantom says. “Do you need someone new now to protect?”

“I am not trying to replace her.”

“I am.”

Raoul starts slightly. He takes a step backward.

The Phantom smiles now, sardonic. “But you do not need to be afraid, monsieur. I will not hurt you.” He turned away, towards the window of the room. As Raoul stood in the doorway, he added, “If this is my room I would prefer to be left alone.”

“Of course,” Raoul says. He leaves and heads to his own room, somewhat unsettled.

In his dreams he does not see a squadron of candles, nor does a noose tighten around his throat. But he is at the ocean with Christine, and when he looks at her he sees that she is now wearing a mask. “Think of me,” she says in the voice of the new soprano. “Or do you remember me anymore?”

When he wakes it is still pitch dark, and he is shivering. This nightmare unnerves him more than the thought of the Phantom or any other specter might. For the first time in a long time he lights the candle next to his bedside, irrationally frightened of the dark.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was written for the Fictober challenge presented by phantastichomos on tumblr. Day 10 of the challenge is themed with candles, as is the fic to some extent. I won't pretend it's really a candle fic per se, but what would a strict candle fic be anyhow?  
> Anyways. I feel bad that I killed off Christine to support my slash. At the same time, I feel like "Christine dies and Erik and Raoul get together" is an actual trope in this fandom, which is odd considering how few tropes E/R actually has. I hope this fic has enough E/R to satisfy, by the way. Christine somewhat took over, as she tends to do. Nevertheless, I'd still say it's E/R.  
> If you have any opinions on any of this, or anything else to say, I'd love to hear from you in the comments.


End file.
